Never, Ever Gave You All My Good
by AfewSentencesShortOfaParagraph
Summary: When Eli and Clare unexpectedly run into each other at a bar in New York, it seems like their lives might tangle together once again. Old habits die hard, though, and perhaps they'll learn some relationships just don't deserve a second chance...then again, they were never much for convention.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, here's the deal: this universe is canon only up to Drop the World, part two, all the way back in season 10. After the accident and the breakup, Eli transferred upon Bullfrog and Cece's insistence. Interested in the theater as a writer and director, Eli got into NYU. Clare graduated at the top of her class and double majors at Columbia.**

I steered my bike onto the sidewalk just in time to avoid a particularly crazy cabbie's idea of driving. As luck would have it, though, my shitty bike's chain decided it was the perfect time to disengage from the gear, and I was pitched unto my side, knocking into several people in the process.

"God dammit, fucking shit, ass muffin," I grumbled to myself, righting the bike and flipping off some of the more obscene victims of my misfortune. "It clearly wasn't my fault." I called over my shoulder, tugging the useless hunk of metal behind me.

Fuck, I needed a drink.

Glancing at my watch—the time had just crept past 8:30, almost unacceptably early to be getting a drink—I propped my bike against the alley wall. At that point, I was almost hoping someone would steal it. If anything, it would give me an excuse to look for a slightly better means of transportation. Maybe I could really own up to my douchebag status and learn how to skateboard.

Chuckling darkly and forcing the hair out of my eyes, I rounded the corner and entered The Cat's Pajamas—a cheap and nearly-dingy establishment far enough away from NYU's campus that it was my favorite drinking spot.

The bouncer, Sterling, was once a professional tightrope walker until he decided to move to New York and pursue his calling as a novelist. Occasionally, I'll give him tips like I actually think he's talented.

"Eli!" He slapped my back as I wandered in. For a man who's five-one, Sterling sure knew how to knock you off balance. "You've got to stop wearing so much black. I swear you blend right in to the background!"

"I'll get right on that." I retorted under my breath.

I went to the counter for some beer, and glanced around at the slowly-filling, dimly-lit room. There was a dart board and a pool table tucked away in the brightest corner, directly under a hanging light that gave off an unsettling yellow glow. The counter snaked all the way around the tap and reserve of liquor, and it was always sticky. My favorite part was the ever-growing collage of graffiti that covered nearly seventy percent of the wall space.

I had this booth in the corner that was perfect for wallowing, so I slipped in—drink in hand—and started unraveling my scarf and unbuttoning my winter jacket. Out of my messenger bag, I pulled my laptop and started drumming my thumb on the table, waiting for the Wi-Fi connection.

Three and a half beers, a few hours, and only three additional pages to my play later, a jarring voice caught my attention.

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Claaaaarrrrrre, happy birthday to you!"

My head snapped to attention so quickly, I felt my muscles resist and tense. My heart had started pounding loud enough that I felt my pulse against my eardrum, and suddenly my palms were slick with sweat.

No way, nuh uh, it simply could not be.

But what if it was?

I was frozen with my indecision: fight or flight. If Clare Edwards was actually in the same room as me, there should be no question. I had to run. I had to hop on my shitty bike and pedal back to my hideous dorm and lock my door and forget everything.

But the only reason my mind had jumped so quickly to her was because I had taken note of the date as soon as I woke up.

February 2nd—Clare Edwards' birthday.

Also Groundhog's Day, which was as good an excuse as any for why the date was stuck in my head.

Plus, it wasn't like I spent all my time thinking about what happened to her anymore, coming up with every hypothetical in my head—some benevolent and some downright childishly evil.

But I'd be a rotten liar if I didn't admit to dwelling on fleeting thoughts every once in a while. I had grown a lot, but I was pretty fucking far from perfect.

Flight it was.

I hurriedly shoved my scarf and laptop back into my bag and was in the process of putting my arm through my coat sleeve and rushing toward the door when the source of the jarring voice slammed right into me. All four-foot-ten of her.

"Eli Goldsworthy!?" Alli Bhandari scoffed, her high-pitched indignation carrying despite the din and the terrible acoustics. Suddenly, I could feel _her_ stare tickling my skin, and it took every ounce of my feeble, pathetic willpower not to look.

"Yup, thanks, scream it louder."

Alli sneered, clacking her long nails against the plastic case of her cell phone. "What are you doing here?"

"Not that you actually have a right to know, but I go to school around here, short-stuff."

"Cute: I've definitely never heard that one before. Why don't you take your dark cloud of doom elsewhere?"

Being the prick I was, I seriously considered reclaiming my booth just to spite Miss Snooty, but my skin was still prickling with the knowledge that Clare Edwards was close by. And that was dangerous.

But I couldn't quite tame the confrontational beast. "I see you haven't changed a bit since high school." I quirked a meaningful eyebrow at her and straightened my coat before slinging my bag over my torso.

"And you have? I thought by now you'd have at least branched out to wearing grey or red or something."

"Sorry I don't mindlessly consume the profit-driven crap spouted by the fashion industry." I shot back, pushing past her toward the door.

I had just made it to my shitty bike when I heard the crunch of boots approaching me from behind. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping that maybe Sterling was right. Maybe I could just blend into the darkness.

"You're leaving?"

Fucking Christ, why did she have to sound so sad about it?

I spun around too quickly, almost losing my balance, and kept my eyes trained firmly on the sharpie-colored tips of my Converse. "Only because your friend asked _so_ nicely: sugar on top and everything."

"Alli's just…" Clare trailed off, knowing that starter only led to minefields. "You weren't going to say hello?"

"I thought it would be better if…" I sighed, trailing off, too. There was just too much to discuss, like we were on opposite ends of the galaxy and neither of us had enough time to cover that much distance. "Happy birthday," I offered after a painful pause.

"Thank you, Eli."

At the sound of my name, painted with nostalgia by her tongue, I chanced my first look at Clare Edwards in five years. She had gotten this charming pixie-cut and her hair—curly as ever—swooped across her forehead. She looked kinda punk in her tan leather jacket and long black boots. And her eyes were still that piercing blue: vibrant and glowing in the darkening gray light of the falling snow.

Goddammit, she was beautiful.

I wanted to hurl.

"So what brings you to the city?" I asked, trying to cover up my ogling.

"I live here; I go to Columbia."

"Shit, really?" Clare laughed, and I felt my blood rush to my face. "I just, this is my fourth year at NYU. I'm surprised it took us this long to bump into each other."

"Yeah, me too." Clare suddenly cast her eyes away, like she wanted to hide something.

"Okay, well, this has been terrifically awkward." I clapped my hands together, trying for some levity. "But I really should be going."

"We could get coffee some time. Or something."

I couldn't tell if my ears were playing tricks on me, but she seemed nervously hopeful. I pounded my fist against my thigh. "Sure. Good. Yes."

Again, Clare laughed bashfully and then pulled out her phone. "What's your number?"

I fed her my cell number, and confirmed when she repeated it back to me. "Alright, like I said, terrifically awkward, but the library is shouting my name. Big project due soon," I lied.

"Okay." Clare took a couple steps back toward the door. "I'll text you."

"Looking forward to it," I assured her, trying to keep my voice in check. And then she disappeared back into the bar.

"You are a smooth, smooth man, Goldsworthy." I reprimanded myself, lugging my bike along behind me miserably.

The walk back to campus took forty minutes, and by the time I jiggled my key in the lock just-so in order to get the damn door open I was soaking wet, fucking cold, and covered in snow.

"Don't you just love winter in New York?" I asked sardonically, dumping my bike in its designated location behind our broken futon.

J.J., my roommate, looked up from his complicated-looking Music Theory textbook. "Yup!" He answered enthusiastically and earnestly.

I seriously hated him sometimes.

Rolling my eyes, I wandered into my room to change into sweats. We had a suite-style room, so J.J. and I both had our own living space as well as the common room. And then, of course, the bathroom we shared with two theater majors, Ricky and Blake, who also happened to be dating.

"Almost forgot, Goldman, Lenore came by looking for you about an hour ago!" I froze. "She really is a fine specimen of the female gender."

"You're gross." I informed him, grabbing my bag again and making sure my keys were in there. "So, I think I'm going to head to the library and get some work done."

J.J. frowned at me, well aware of what I was doing. "I don't understand why you're avoiding her."

A knife twisted deep in my stomach. "And I'm not going to explain it to you. See you later." I called, pulling the door shut heavily behind me.

Just as I was exiting the warm sanctuary of my building, my phone started to buzz in my pocket.

I pulled it out as I pushed through the double doors into the cold.

_Unknown Number: It was really nice to see you. I'm sure this crosses some kind of boundary, but I've missed you, Eli._

Oh, Clare Edwards, if only you knew all the boundaries I've crossed in the past week.

Deep, deep in the pit of my stomach, the knife seemed to twist again—a sharp aching pain.

_Eli: Yeah. I've missed you, too._


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for the already incredible reception of this story. **

I ran my hand over my face, gargling obscenities, and jotted down the same note for the fourth goddamn time. Tess was still stepping all over everyone's lines, Christian was barely off book—making up lines and jumping back and forth in the story, and Sam was still trying to be bigger and better than everyone else on stage and it looked tacky and distracting.

I often wondered why the fuck I thought directing would be a suitable career choice. Fucking actors.

I bit my tongue, though, really wanting to get through this run without interruptions. That way I could _really_ tear into them, what with all my pent up aggression.

"Why can't any of you hit your mark, Jesus fucking Christ?" I grumbled to myself, underlining the note.

"Perhaps it's because the world isn't ready for a socialist production of Death of a Salesman."

I smirked as Lenore took the vacant seat next to me in the audience. "It's not necessarily socialist. Arthur Miller definitely meant this play to be a critique of capitalism, though."

"Just like William Shakespeare intended Romeo and Juliet to be a story about two guys in love, right?"

"Hey, that was a brilliant idea, and we were sold out every single night."

She smiled sadly and scratched her long fingernails into the hair at the nape of my neck. I failed miserably at not shivering. "It was brilliant. Like most things that happen in that overactive, guarded brain of yours."

I gulped, training my eyes back on the rehearsal I was supposed to be running. "I can't really talk right now, you know."

"I know." She sounded so resigned and disappointed. So unlike the Lenore I met two years ago. "I just knew you were scheduled to be in here: every Monday, right? And—I don't know—I wanted to make sure I hadn't made the entire thing up or something. At this point, it would almost make more sense."

I squirmed, hating that she was so blatantly honest all the time. Hating that I couldn't seem to grow the ovaries and face Lenore head on.

Instead, I ignored her until she got up and left, keeping my eyes trained on the show.

Shit, I was an asshole.

The rest of rehearsal went about as poorly as the start, and by the time they finished stumbling through the run of the show, it was nearly 1:30 in the morning. After promising to e-mail out my notes, and a seriously regrettable outburst that made Tess cry, my cast rushed back to their homes and left me to make sure the black box theater was going to be presentable for whatever class that would be inhabiting it the next morning.

Shitty bike was waiting for me outside like a trusty, rusty steed. Dammit. I was still hoping someone would take it.

Also waiting was a post-it note from Lenore: _can we get food sumtime? You can't avoid me 4ever. ;P_

I carefully peeled it off the handlebar and shoved it into my bag, a heavy sigh bursting from my lungs.

She was probably right, but I was betting I could keep it up a little while longer.

###

It had been four days since I had run into Clare at The Cat's Pajama's.

Four frakkin' days and I was still reading the same, single text message over and over again. It wasn't like I was looking for hidden messages or subtext, it was just…I thought I'd never see her again and then suddenly she swooped in out of nowhere. And one text message was the only proof I had that she existed—close enough to touch—out there at the fringes of my world.

But I was too nervous about what it would mean if I were the one to text her. I didn't want to push, and I didn't want to come on too strong. I figured if Clare was serious about us seeing each other again, she'd initiate it. And if not…well I would have to deal with that.

But, shit, it was tempting to push my limits.

"You're such a lovesick puppy." Ricky, toothbrush hanging out of the side of his mouth, leaned against the doorway to the bathroom and watched with his head cocked as I typed Clare a message, deleted, and tried typing again.

"I swear I can hear him thinking sometimes when I'm trying to sleep." J.J. offered, switching his attention between his blank sheet music, his keyboard, and me. He had been amused to find out that I was obsessing over an old high school flame and had taken to teasing me about it at any opportunity. "Oh, Clare, our love was one for the ages. Why did you ever leave me?"

"I hate you guys." I reminded them sullenly, propelling myself off the futon. I made sure to slam my bedroom door as hard as I could, but the walls were thin and I could still hear them giggling like school girls.

As soon as Ricky left for his ballet class, the only sounds penetrating the wall were J.J. tinkering with melodies on the keyboard and _that_, at least, I could work to.

Settling into a flow fairly easily, I continued to work on my play. I needed to have a solid first draft to turn in by the end of the month, and I had been suffering from some serious creativity-block of late.

After a little while, my phone started to buzz on my nightstand. Since the words were coming quickly, and that was a rare joy, I ignored whoever it was in favor of working. Eventually, though, my stomach's growling started to sound like a garbage disposal, and I couldn't hold off anymore. Saving my progress, I slid off my bed and checked my phone.

_Mom: How's the show coming along ? So excited to see it and you!_

_Dad: u lil shit, y haven't u calledin weeks_

_Clare: Hey you, my internship let out early for once. Interested in getting a caffeinated beverage, my treat?_

I did a double take, my heart leaping into my throat. She had sent that an hour and twenty-six minutes ago. Ignoring the other messages, I quickly typed a reply to Clare.

_Eli: I was writing. Any chance this offer still stands?_

I started pacing the room, my anxiety spiking as I waited for her to reply.

Fucking Christ, what was it about this woman that made me go all crazy middle school romance? I had been with other girls, no big deal. I could be suave and collected and not drive my car into a building every time they rejected me.

Why did she have to be the one so talented at unraveling me?

Hands shaking, I sat back down on the edge of my bed and started to breathe deeply, counting the seconds of inhalation and exhalation.

Okay, yeah, good. Calm. Everything was fine. I was fine.

_Clare: You are a lucky man, Eli Goldsworthy. The due date of my lab report was pushed back. There's this bookstore/coffee house a few blocks from my apartment called Scribbles. Meet me there in thirty?_

I was so invested in her reply that the knock on my door sent me jumping out of my skin. "Goldman, everything alright in there?"

I opened the door, and J.J. immediately gave me a once over. "Look, if you want to have sex, let me be clear…I really like my nipples played with and I'm going to need you to be okay with that."

J.J. cocked an eyebrow at me. "And if you want to have sex, all you have to do is ask."

"Noted. Everything is fine. In fact, I was about to head out. Don't wait up, _mom_."

"Hey, no need to get hostile. Usually pacing and mumbling is a sign that your anxiety is peaking. Excuse me for being concerned."

Noticing J.J.'s we-have-to-talk-about-this-now face, I sank back onto my bed. "Clare texted." I explained reluctantly.

"And you, what, immediately lost your shit? Did you ever think this may be a bad idea?"

I bristled even though it was a perfectly valid conclusion to draw. "I can take care of myself, okay?"

"No one is questioning that, Goldman." He rolled his eyes at me. "But everyone has that person in their lives—the one who never exactly promotes clarity of thought. You're biased and a loveable nutcase. I'm just saying: why put unnecessary pressure on yourself?"

I mulled it over in my head for a few moments. "Look," I finally stood, grabbing my wallet and phone from my nightstand. "I met Clare when I was going through a seriously traumatic time in my life, but even though all the shit—especially because of the shit—it was always perfectly clear that she was my kindred spirit. And, god, I am Anne of Green Gables, but if I'm getting a second chance to have her in my life, there is no way I'm going to ignore it."

"Okay…but I'm going to start compiling songs for an angsty playlist in case things go _way_ bad."

"Have I mentioned that I hate you?" I checked, cracking a smile all the same. I was halfway to the door when I remembered something. "Cece can't know." I warned seriously, pointing my finger sternly at my goof of a roommate.

"Ugh, now I have to lie to your mom?" I didn't flinch, holding my pose until he promised. "Fine. But I'm not okay with it."

"I'm not okay with her calling you every week to check how I'm doing, and then having to listen to you gossip like you attended…whatever school that show Gossip Girl was set in. But do I complain?"

"All the time—very loudly." J.J. smirked.

"And that is my right as the broody roommate."

"I just don't understand why you put so much effort into ignoring your parents. They're so much cooler than mine; I'd do the salsa if I had parents like yours."

"You've already co-opted them, so why not make it official?" I called as the door fell shut behind me instead of giving a real answer.

I liked J.J., I really did, but he was eager to be friends, and all I really wanted was cohabitation.

Clare had texted me the address while J.J. and I were having our spat, so I quickly mapped out the best route to take as I bounded down the stairs.

Seventeen minutes after Clare requested that I meet her, I was clunking to a stop in front of a small building designed to resemble a log cabin. Holding back my snort, I pushed through the front door—a little bell charmed my arrival—and found myself in a spacious room. Bookshelves were built into all the walls, the different sections marked off by color. The fiction shelves were a deep forest green, drama was lavender, and romance was a rich crimson. Tucked in between the shelves of burnt orange children's books and sunflower-yellow non-fiction was a counter littered with fliers and advertisements. Behind that, hung higher on the wall, three chalkboards listed the menu.

I let out a low whistle, spinning slowly a few times so I could take it all in.

"I know, right?"

I jumped, quickly turning to face a smiling Clare. Recovering quickly enough, I smirked. "Do you have a sixth sense or something? How is it you always find the most magical places?"

She flushed, pleased, and met my gaze daringly. "A magician never reveals her secrets, muggle."

"Oh," I grunted, clasping my heart dramatically. "Watch out; I'm delicate."

She chuckled, and then stepped up to the counter. I followed behind, trying to fight the rising panic in my chest. I hadn't really thought out meeting Clare beyond the fact that I wanted to.

What the fuck were we going to talk about?

I ordered some hazelnut coffee and a blueberry muffin, and Clare got a café mocha. We found seats in the drama section, and then the dread truly settled in when a muffling, awkward silence descended upon us. I sipped the coffee and picked at the muffin, glancing at her every now and then.

She was sneaking glances as me, too, though.

"So, Columbia, huh? That's impressive."

"Thanks." She smiled sweetly, and I felt that panicky, overwhelming urge to lunge across the table and start kissing her that was both comfortingly familiar and frighteningly intense.

"So what are you studying?" I asked, desperate for distraction from my inner turmoil.

I was a fucking bag of dicks.

"Mechanical engineering and English," she giggled.

I raised my eyebrows. "That's quite the double major."

Clare shrugged. "I have diverse interests, and I do what I want."

"I remember that distinctly about you." I smirked, infatuated with the way it still made her cheeks color just the tiniest bit.

"Well what about you?" Clare challenged. "Still transgressing societal norms and whatnot?"

"Oh, there have been loads and loads of whatnot. With just a dash of hootenanny."

I started to relax, easing into the brilliance of her company. "I'm serious." She chastised. "What have you been doing at NYU?"

"I'm in the theater program for writing and directing. I'm actually in the middle of a production of Death of a Salesman. It's going to raise all kinds of hell." I snarked.

And then the awkward silence was back, like a third person sitting on top of our table.

She was the one to break it that time. "So, I gave Adam your number. I hope that's okay."

"Adam? As in Adam Torres? Fuck yeah, that's okay. It always bugged me that we fell out of touch. What is Adam up to these days?"

"He's actually in town, too. He started out at University of Toronto, but he transferred this past year so that we could live together."

"No shit?" Clare shook her head: either to answer my question or condemn my swearing I wasn't sure. "Can I have his number, too?"

"Oh, I don't think that'll be necessary." She chuckled. "He has a lot to say to you. I just asked him to hold off until…" Clare blushed. "Well, until I was sure that I really wanted to see you again." I nodded, swallowing over the sudden lump in my throat. She noticed my distress easily. "Not because I didn't want to. It's just, it's a lot, you know?"

"I know. Sorry about that."

"Eli, no." Clare reached forward and placed her hand over mine. Hers were soft, the nails short and uneven from biting. I tried to find solace in the fact that some things didn't change. "Don't go thinking that I had to debate seeing you because of…how things ended. We both have a lot to answer for in terms of how poorly that was handled. It's just that—"

"Clare," I cut her off finally, gently moving my hand from under hers. "You really don't have to explain. I'm okay. See?" I put on an obviously fake, cheery smile. Her nostrils flared, and I couldn't help dissolve into actual laughter. "Okay, so I'm a little unhinged still. But I am much better equipped to deal with it."

"That's good," she spoke softly, her eyes trained on the table.

"C'mon, look at me, please?" When she did, I met her stare, unwavering. "We don't have to do this. It's going to be messy and there'll be a lot of talking and, hell, yeah, I'm still a sarcastic asshole who'll make jokes to mask his feelings and then explode later when it gets to be too much. But the detonation has two hundred percent less casualties, that I can promise. You know who I am—not much, fundamentally, has changed. But if you tell me you want to try this again—work out our issues and be friends or whatever—and later on decide that you can't handle me, I will be devastated, and I'll bounce back, but I'll be broken for a long time."

"This sounds suspiciously like an ultimatum," she narrowed her eyes.

"No, not at all. I'm just saying…I want to be honest with you, Clare. I don't want you to have any illusions about how fucked up I am. You should be able to make an informed decision."

"Well," Clare's lips puckered. "What do you want? I'm not the only one that matters here. I'm still emotionally timid and sexually reserved. I have trouble recognizing what I want, and then end up stomping all over the people I care most about. Plus, I'm ridiculously busy with school and my internship, so I won't just be at your disposal."

"Looks like we'll both have to make room for each other—the good and the bad—in our new lives. I'm in. What say you?"

She considered it deeply, the crease between her eyebrows becoming defined. I watched, my hands starting to sweat, anxiously waiting for her to say anything at all.

"Eli Goldsworthy." She finally addressed me, this adorable determination in her voice. "I am all in."


	3. Chapter 3

I handed over my meal card as the forcedly cheerful attendant shoved my paper to-go carton across the counter.

"$8.50." She reiterated as she swiped my card quickly.

"Thanks." I grunted, stalking away from the counter.

I hated being in the student center at noon. It was worse than being in the student center between the hours of three and four a.m., when hordes of drunken lemmings were jonesing for sandwiches. And yet the way my classes were scheduled on Mondays and Wednesdays made noon lunch a necessity.

That, combined with the fact that my appointment with Dr. Culleton had gone badly, set me way on edge.

"You're in a bad mood today." Blake observed as I plopped down at our suite's usual table.

"What else is new?" Ricky leered. "Has Clare not texted in the last two hours?"

"Harsh—let's draw in that cattiness." J.J. chastised, thumping me supportively on the back.

"It has nothing to do with Clare, thank you very much." I flexed my shoulder, trying not to wince in pain. "I've got school stuff. And personal stuff." They were giggling. "I'm serious. Shut up. I fucking hate you guys."

"Has he talked to Lenore yet?" Ricky asked J.J.

J.J. clucked his tongue and shook his head sadly. "No, he's still being a douche about the whole thing." He leveled me with a pointed stare.

"You guys don't know the whole story, and I thought I asked you to stay out of it. Why are we always talking about me, anyway? Blake, how's your presentation for the symposium coming along?"

Blake was studying to be a social worker with a focus on using the fine arts as a tool for integration, or something like that. At the age of 11, he had been adopted by close friends of his parents. He didn't really talk about what happened to them, but their friends were Lebanese radical leftists who taught at NYU. Academia was kind of a big thing with them.

"Fine." Blake sighed, sipping his coffee. He had his laptop open and several packets full of case studies were scattered across the keyboard. "Thanks for asking."

Frustrated that he wasn't going to give me more than that, I tried again. "Ricky, you love to talk about yourself: what's going on at dance class?"

"Well," Ricky instantly got more animated. "Remember how Sophie and I are always up for the same parts for the spring showcase? Yesterday…."

I tuned out and started digging into my stir fry. I wanted to eat as quickly as possible and go back to being alone with my misery. After all, I had so much to be miserable about.

It had been a couple days since I had met Clare at Scribbles, and Adam had not called despite Clare's reassurance that he would. Culleton had insisted I get a first draft of my play to her by the end of this weekend, and—to top it all off—Lenore's film project had gotten into a festival that I had promised to go to before everything happened.

It was this Thursday, and I still hadn't decided the best course of action.

Ricky was still talking when I stood, trash in hand.

"Well, I hate to dine and dash, but I have classes to attend. See you guys back home."

Just when I was counting myself free, J.J. caught up with me. "Are you sure you're okay?" He asked, falling into step.

"Yes."

J.J. nodded, but didn't look convinced. "Cece called this morning, and—"

I quickly cut him off. "I know she's worried, and I know she's upset, okay? Save the lecture. I have a set design class to get to."

I stalked off, leaving J.J. looking wounded.

###

After three years—and counting—of making a nuisance of myself in the theater department, I had become pretty well known with the staff. Though many of them would never admit it because I usually made their lives hell, they had a soft spot for me.

Or, more likely, they had a soft spot for the attention I generated for the department.

Either way, that was how I ended up with a pretty cushy, well-paying job as the department's assistant secretary.

The official secretary, Miss Linda, was Puerto Rican, in her late 60s, and earnest as hell. She was one of the few people I couldn't help but like.

"Eli-boy! How was your weekend?" She greeted as I settled behind my desk, which was perpendicular to hers.

"Dull. How did Richie fare learning the flamingo?"

Miss Linda let out a big belly-laugh and immediately whipped out her phone to show me videos and pictures of her husband trying to dance.

"I almost forgot!" She exclaimed after I had pulled out my laptop. "Your friend—Lenore, is it—stopped by to deliver these tickets." She passed me a sealed envelope with a post-it note stuck to the front that simply read 'Film Festival'. Apparently my evasion was working better than I had anticipated because she hadn't even bothered to add a personal note. "And I need you to file these auditioning applications for Dr. Showault before the end of your shift today."

I groaned as she passed me a thick file folder full of papers.

"You're not going to spare me on a Monday?" I batted my eyelashes at her.

"You're too pretty for your own good." Miss Linda clucked her tongue. "And, no, I'm not going to spare you."

"That stings, Miss Linda. It really does."

"Well, be sure to invite me to your scathing piece of political theater protesting this injustice, Eli-boy."

I didn't realize I was smiling until Miss Linda pinched my cheek.

An hour later, after Miss Linda had left for the day, I was nursing several paper cuts when my cell started buzzing in my pocket. "Eli Goldsworthy." I greeted, answering the unknown number.

"Eli!" I didn't recognize the baritone rumble of the voice, but there was an evasive familiarity in the enthusiasm.

"Who's this?"

"Dude, come on. You don't know?" I silently racked the recesses of my brain. Given the fact I had been thinking about him earlier, I felt like a complete idiot when the voice exclaimed, "Adam Torres, you asshole!"

"No shit! You sound…," I faltered.

"Manly?"

"Well, yeah."

"I've been taking testosterone for a while now. The voice is an awesome byproduct."

"I'm happy for you."

"Thanks!"

There was an awkward lull.

"This is weird, huh?" I tapped a nervous rhythm on my desk. "Five years. Fuck."

Adam's laughter rumbled over the phone.

"What?" I asked, defensive.

"Verbal acuity," he managed between cackles.

"You're not doing any better."

"Acknowledged. Obviously this phone call is stifling and impersonal. Are you busy later? Clare's off work at 8, and I could probably convince her to abandon her research paper for a misfits reunion drink."

I checked my watch. I still had an hour and a half left of my shift, which was plenty of time to work on my play. "I could do drinks. Have you ever heard of The Cat's Pajamas?"

###

Sterling was on duty when I got there. "How are ya?" I paused to ask him, unraveling my scarf.

Sterling was instantly animated and pulled a worn newspaper from thin air. "Terry's restaurant gotta good review in the Bronx Times!" Terry was Sterling's partner and an endlessly energetic Italian cook.

I grabbed the paper and scanned the article. "Tell him I said congratulations." I clasped Sterling on the shoulder.

"Say, did you get my email?"

"With your latest story? Yeah. I'll look at it sometime this week."

"You're the man!" Sterling punched me in the arm before focusing his attention on his job, stopping three timid-looking women for their IDs.

Since it was a Monday night, the crowd was fairly thin. I easily spotted Clare face, laughing animatedly at something, seated at the bar.

Suddenly pretty nervous, I ducked into a dark corner to take a few deep breaths. It would be fantastic if we could all pick up where we left off and be fast friends and all that shit. But I was a realist with intense leanings toward pessimism. I had to deal with the very real possibility that this was going to be painfully awkward.

Though my hands were still shaking a little, I felt calm enough to approach Clare and Adam.

"Hey," I greeted. As if acting of its own accord, my hand flopped in a strange half-wave. Off to a great start, Goldsworthy.

"Eli." Clare smiled brightly.

"DUDE!" Adam exclaimed, wasting no time and wrapping me in a big hug.

"Adam," I gasped, "too much."

"Fuck, sorry." He pulled away timidly and I got my first look at him. Though still a fairly small guy, Adam had definitely gained some muscle definition in all the right places. His jaw seemed bolder and was slightly obscured by patchy scruff. His hair was floppy and a few shades darker than I remembered. Add thick, black glasses and he would have been aesthetically perfect for a barista job at Starbucks.

"Damn. You're quite the sexy beast." I grinned.

"Shut up." He quipped, blushing. "I see you haven't changed a bit, Mr. Eyeliner."

"Why fix what isn't broken?"

Clare rolled her eyes and slipped off her stool. "Shall we snag a table?"

We all agreed and settled into one of the booths by the bathroom—Clare and Adam on one side, me on the other—with a pitcher of beer.

And, after everyone poured themselves a glass, we settled into awkward silence.

Once our pointed eye contact avoidance got to be too much, I cleared my throat and dove in. "So what have you been up to?"

Adam rubbed at the fur on his chin. "I don't even know where to start."

I made a show of checking my watch. "Well, I don't know about you guys, but I'm free for the rest of the night. I hear the beginning's a pretty good place to start."

Adam glanced at Clare. "I can be irresponsible for the night." She conceded. "Heck, I'm already in a bar on a Monday."

"Heck?" I cocked an eyebrow at her. "You're in your third year at college and you're still allergic to expletives, Edwards?"

"I can use language however I choose, _dick-weasel_."

It was Adam's turn to check his watch. "Holy shit, you guys. It's been 10 minutes and I'm already the third wheel to your flirt fest."

"Sorry." We both grumbled, turning the appropriate shades of red.

Adam shook his head but grinned widely. "Whatever. Anyway, I'll give you the highlights. The summer after you lost it—" I grunted my disapproval, but Adam leveled me with a hard stare, daring me to challenge him. When I didn't, he continued—"was pretty uneventful. Grade 11 was the year I started a radio show with Dave Turner. Remember Dave? I dated the student council prez, Katie Matlin. That was quite the wild ride while it lasted. Drew went through some serious trauma the summer before grade 12. So, Mom and Dad moved with him to Alberta where he went to university. I didn't want to be the new kid for my last year of high school, so I moved in with the Edwards. Clare here was valedictorian, and I graduated in the top five percent of the class. I dated Alli Bhandari for a hot second. I got into Ithaca's broadcast journalism program. I started a group for trans* kids called the Transformers. I have my own radio show where I get to talk about video games and comic books and rockin' music. I do pretty well in my classes. And this year I have an internship with NPR New York, which is kind of dull, but I'm making some sweet connections."

"Damn." I managed. "Adam, that's amazing." I tried to pick my jaw off the floor.

He waved off my appraisal but seemed satisfied nonetheless. "Enough about me and my _awesome_ life," he retorted. "What has the famously unstable Eli Goldsworthy been up to?"

I rolled my eyes. "A little credit, please? Crashing Morty was the craziest thing I've ever done."

"Arguably, I'm sure." Clare inserted.

I clasped a hand behind my ear. "Do you guys hear that?"

"The stoner music they've been playing for the past thirty minutes?" Adam guessed.

"Those people who think they're discreetly having sex in the grossest place on earth?" Clare giggled, pointing toward the bathroom door.

"No, no: there's a distinct cracking sound. I think my heart just broke."

"You're ridiculous." Clare shook her head and her floppy hair cut shook gracefully with her. "C'mon, tell Adam all about your NYU adventures. I'm dying to hear more about your life."

Ignoring the constriction in my chest, I launched into my own highlights. "Okay, well, after I recovered from the crash Cece and Bullfrog were hell-bent on getting me some serious therapy. They sent me to this facility in Montreal for a while." I decided to skim over the grimy details. "Eventually, they sent me to this stupid, sensitive private school. I was angry and did a lot of writing, and then I came to terms with my diagnosis and how royally I screwed everything up and I did a lot of writing. When I graduated high school, I had early acceptance to NYU and three polished one acts done. I got a favorite creative writing professor of mine—Dr. Shannon Culleton—to back a production of one of my plays freshman year. It was pretty tiny production and a really bleak exploration of mental illness. But it got attention from a few critics, and the professors in the department kinda let me have free rein after that. I focused on directing my second year and then put on this really awesome production of one of my other one acts junior year." Clare coughed, flushing crimson. "That one actually won a couple awards." I added, eying her reaction curiously. "Anyway, now I work in the department offices, am in the middle of a production of _Death of a Salesman_, and am writing a full length play as my final senior project."

"Fuck yeah." Adam held up his hand for a high five. I slapped it eagerly.

"Just tell us when, and we'll be at the show." Clare promised.

"Thanks, guys." We had put a decent dent in the beer by then. "So, you live together, huh?"

"Yup! Me, Clare, Fiona Coyne, and her girlfriend Imogen Moreno."

"Fiona Coyne like the rich, snobby diplomat's daughter, Fiona Coyne? I thought it ended badly between you two."

"Nah. She's totally into the ladies. We moved past our strange, dysfunctional love affair and became good friends. Plus, she totally lets us live in her family's damn nice loft for dirt cheap."

I sighed wistfully. "Fuck, that sounds luxurious. I live in the NYU dorms because my scholarship covers most of the cost. But I pretty much hate it."

"You'd probably be welcome over at Fiona's." Clare offered. "If you ever need to escape the treachery of dorm life."

"I will most definitely take you up on that." I promised.

"You should come over next Saturday!" Adam slapped the sticky table top. "Drew's coming up for a visit. We're going to get wrecked. It'll be great."

I tugged my pocket calendar from my bag. "Yeah, works for me."

"Dude," Adam glanced at the planner with a shit-eating grin. "That is so cute." 

"Oh, fuck off. Scheduling is a therapy technique, shithead."

"Uh-ha." Adam was fighting off giggles. Suddenly, his phone started singing Working For The Weekend. "Oh, that's my boss. I gotta take this." He rushed for the door, leaving me and Clare alone.

"How was work?" I managed after a stretch of uncertain silence.

"Typical." She sighed, swirling the dregs of her beer around in her mug. "I'm assigned to this big, important project that I'm not really supposed to talk about. The short version is that we're designing a robot that can understand several different languages. But the project manager, Asher, is a real douchebag."

"Sorry to hear that." I consoled softly.

Adam approached the table, his hair sprinkled with snow. "There's some breaking news story, and I have got to jet." He started gathering his things. "Saturday?" He pointed sternly at me.

"Saturday." I agreed.

"The misfits are back in action: boo-freaking-ya!"

He pumped his fist in the air and was gone.

"I missed that man."

"He's one of a kind." Clare smiled after him.

"So," I posited awkwardly.

"So," Clare echoed.

At that moment, the loud, apparently-horny couple emerged from the bathroom disheveled and fooling no one.

"I can't believe you frequent this place."

"Hey." I placed a hand over my heart. "This place was the setting for some of my best sulking. It's like home to me."

"You're not making a compelling argument." Clare challenged, a gleam in her eye.

"Oh, right, I'm sure you're a patron at the classiest establishments in town."

"Scribbles."

"Fair rebuttal. But it could be an outlier. Remember the abandoned church? That was an Eli find."

"Fine." Clare crossed her arms over her chest. I noticed for the first time that her usual cross necklace was missing. "We're tied for good taste."

An idea struck me so suddenly, I actually jumped in my seat. "Want to make it a competition?"

Clare raised her eyebrows, and I noticed her sit up straighter. Clare Edwards was a glutton for competition. "What did you have in mind?"

"I bet you…a month of covering drinks that I can find cooler places in New York than you."

She considered it seriously. "We'll have to come up with an objective scale for measuring coolness." She waited for me to nod in agreement. "But I accept your challenge and terms."

"Shake on it?"

She gripped my hand tight. "You're going down, Goldsworthy."

I smirked, reveling in her reaction. "We'll see about that."


End file.
